


Video Games

by mathildia



Series: Domestic Hydra Husbands and Steve [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dirty Talk, Humilation, M/M, Power Play, Shopping, Slurs, dominance hierarchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard this. The two of them. Without Rumlow it’s like the lights have been turned down a bit. For all that he is mercurial and fickle and often just plain annoying, without him, what are Rollins and Steve? Couple of over worked guys of few words and fewer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Video Games

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Видеоигры](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13551402) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> Not really a sequel but definitely part of [Chain of Command](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4277697)

Rogers has to be in the mood. He’s often not. Often he just walks in and dumps his stuff and goes straight to his room and all Brock and Jack hear are some god awful olde timey records playing. And it’s not like they can do anything if he decides not to play. They’ve had thirds before. Thirds who they would happily lean on. There’s no leaning on Rogers though. Rogers does what he wants. Rogers has to be in the mood. Brock can always be persuaded to be in mood. Even if he’s tired or distracted. Jack’s eyebrow, Jack’s elbow or Rogers dressed in, dressed in whatever really. Brock can always be persuaded to be in the mood.

As for Jack, is it even a mood?

*

This place is… It’s horrible. 

It’s smoked glass and black mirrors. There’s a beaded curtain and through it a series of booths to watch the movies. It all smells like old grease and semen. Dingy and over-lit at the same time. Bright spotlights. So you can’t see the carpet. Although, Steve can see the carpet. He wishes he couldn’t. It distracts him so much he almost bumps into a table covered in handcuffs. Nasty, tinny things, packed in black glossy boxes, each illustrated by a picture of a woman who’s facial expression seems to suggest the very fact she was wearing these nerve pinching cuffs had sent her into throes of violent ecstasy. Steve sniffed and Rollins turned around, “What?”

“Couldn’t we go somewhere better?” Steve says with a curl of his top lip.

“No,” says Rollins, popping a matchstick into the corner of his mouth. “I like it here.” He picks up a boxed dildo that has a picture of three women in leather bikinis on the packaging and smiles. “You know whatcha gonna get him?”

Steve doesn’t know. It’s tough. What does Rumlow like, even? Apart from things you can’t really buy, even here. He waves towards a rail of black rubber clothes. “Something from there? I could wear something.”

“Yeah? Like some gimp suit? But aint that already your fucking daywear, bud? Look.” Rollins grabs something from the rail and holds it up. It’s a mask that is a replica of the one Steve wears, but comes with snap on accessories that could cover the eyes and the mouth. The mouth section had a rubber cock head fixed on the inside. Rollins twists it so Steve could see. “Little pecker to keep your mouth busy. A classic.”

Steve shudders, embarrassed. 

It’s hard this. The two of them. Without Rumlow it’s like the lights have been turned down a bit. For all that he is mercurial and fickle and often just plain annoying, without him, what are Rollins and Steve? Couple of over worked guys of few words and fewer.

When Rumlow had gleefully suggested this, that they both choose him a present together, sat at the kitchen table in his underwear, nursing a coffee, back scratched up to fuck, Steve and Rollins had glanced at each other and exchanged a look of quiet resignation, as Rumlow went on and on about what he was hoping to happen later tonight and how much vicious treatment he wanted to be a feature of his birthday celebrations.

“You should sue them,” Rollins says, still fingering the Captain America mask.

“Not worth it,” Steve grunts, turning away. “Too many companies licensed the Captain America trademark in the 70s and 80s,at one point it looked there was going to be a five way lawsuit over who really owned the name. I let it go.” Steve walks further into the shop.

“What you gonna get him, then?” Rollins says, following. “A spanking machine? Save his arm, Must be a nightmare.”

“Fuck off.” Steve doesn’t look around. He stops to look at a wall of whips, beside the beaded curtain that separates the shop proper from the viewing booths. 

“But, serious. What could you get him?” Rollins presses up behind Steve, big hands on Steve’s waist. "He’s already got… “ Rollins breath on Steve’s neck. “I mean, what do you get the guy who’s got Captain America? Y’know?”

Steve turns in Rollins’s grip. “You jealous?”

“Nah.” Their faces are close and Rollins moves the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You’re too easy. You love it too much. Fucking whore. That cunt Rumlow always tries to make out he’s not into it. Sure, he’s not built like a fucking bouncy castle, but he’s more fun than you.”

“So you wouldn’t fuck me?” Rollins is so close. Steve feels his nipples hardening and hopes it doesn't show though his shirt. He thinks of Rumlow, of how once Rumlow tied him down and spent half the night licking and biting his nipples until Steve was sobbing for him to please stop and get him off. 

“Didn’t say that, big fella,” Rollins drawls - hands slide around Steve’s body, grab his ass. “But you’d have to ask real nice.”

“Or beg you not to.”

“Yeah, alright, Cap, let’s not get philosophical about that shit, we’re here for a reason. Fag daddy’s special surprise treat. How ‘bout a cock ring?” Rollins reaches out and unhooks a thick metal ring from the wall right by Steve’s head. 

Steve side-eyes it. “Pretty sure he has a whole box of those. He likes,you know, hardware.”

“Yeah.” And then Rollins looks right at Steve’s mouth, spits out the matchstick, says, “Fuck it,” and kisses Steve hard.

Steve responds horribly, with a moan and with shameful desperation.

Without speaking, without unlocking their mouths, Rollins manoeuvres Steve through the curtain and into one of the viewing booths. Steve barely registers the place - it’s dimly lit, stained carpet up the walls, one chair and a dead screen. Eventually, still panting hard, still kissing, Rollins says, “I have an idea. For your daddy’s present.”

“What,” says Steve, moaning as Rollins bites his neck.

“I fuck him. Really fuck him. Leave him limping for a week. The kind of fuck he crawls away from. I fuck him hard and almost dry, for hours, until he’s begging for it to end. Fuck him until he comes untouched and keep going, go right through that. Fuck him until he’s begging me to stop and never fuck him again.”

Steve is rolling his head back against the wall of the booth, thinking about Rollins fucking him that way. “But what about me? What will I do?”

“You’ll hold him down,” Rollins whispers. “You’re the bondage. Humiliating - his very own fag pet holds him down for fucking.”

“I don’t think… I don’t really know about that. I can’t do that.”

“Yeah, you can, because I’ll tell you to do it. You’ll do that. When we get in the bedroom, you’ll do whatever I tell you to do, pig.”

Steve sighs and lets his legs buckle a little. “Oh, call me that again. Please.”

Rollins mouth is at his ear. “You like that? You know i can call you whatever you want sugar tits. I know I got a fucking mouth on me.” 

“I think we all know. And no that. Not sugar. Call me the bad names.”

Steve can feel Rollins’s smile on his ear. “The bad names, is it? Huh? What bad names you like? Fuckpig?”

No,” Steve says, words sliding out on breath - and he didn’t mean to, oh, he didn’t mean… But it’s too late. “The ones where it sounds like I’m a slut. Like I’m for sex and I don’t get to say no.”

“Oh yeah? Like, fuck hole? Cock slut,” Steve half-moans, Rollins licks over his ear. “Or do you like”, he pauses, letting that last K sound click in Steve’s ear, “do you like cunt? Yeah. Because that’s all you are, fag. Fucking pussy. Fucking filthy, needy wet hole for my dick. All y’are. You know that, right? Cunt. ‘Cause if you need me to, I can make damn sure you know it.”

“Oh.” Steve can’t really speak. His thighs are shaking.

Rollins presses closer. Steve can feel the hard line of his body, flush to his, shoulder to thigh. “You like that do you, hole?” he whispers, lower. “What do you need? Tell daddy what you need?”

“Fuck,” Steve pulls back. “Fuck. Don’t.”

“No? That a no?” Something changes slightly in Rollins body, just a little, the way he holds himself. “Okay, then Rogers - Cap - here’s my deal. I’m a bad man. You know it. But I’m not a monster. You look me in the eye right now and tell me you don’t want this, and it all stops. For good. You got one chance.”

Steve swallows. He opens his eyes and looks at Rollins, moment passes with no sound but breath. “No?” says Rollins. “Good. Now get your fucking clothes off, cunt.” Rollins pushes Steve away and he takes a stumbling step and a half away across the booth. Rollins moves back and lolls in the chair, legs wide, clearly hard. 

Steve’s so turned on, he can barely think. His hands go to his sweatshirt. He starts to slip down the zipper and he’s so hard; he wants this, even though he doesn’t know what this is going to be. He’s panting for it. When the zipper’s down and he goes to shrug off the sweatshirt, Rollins says, “Wait. Wait for it, cunt. Before that comes off, you’re gonna tell me what you want to be called.”

“We already-“ Steve’s fingers twitch on the zipper. “We already said, about that.”

“Yeah.I know.” Jack leans back further. Steve goes to peel back one side of the sweatshirt and Rollins barks out, “Wait!” Steve stops. Rollins smiles. “Now say what you are.”

Steve looks Rollins in the eye. “I’m a cunt, sir.”

“Nice. Get that off.”

Steve takes off his sweatshirt and lets it fall onto the floor. He starts on the buttons of his shirt without being told. When he’s done, Rollins stops him again. “Before you take that off, another.”

“What?”

“Another name. What you are, filth?”

Steve takes a slow swallow. Again he holds Rollins’s gaze, just lifts his chin. “I’m a fuck hole, sir.”

Rollins nods. Steve drops the shirt and lifts the hem of his white vest. As he pulls it over his head he says, “And I’m a faggot, sir.” 

His hands go to the buttons of his pants as the vest drops. He pulls them off saying, “I’m a slut, sir.” Then straightens, shoving off his sneakers and socks, taking the waistband of his underpants. They’re soaked in front.

Rollins licks his top lip. “You do catch on quick, cunt. Now get your dick out and stroke it for me. And keep telling me what you are.”

Steve does it, he shoves his underpants down his big thighs and hooks them off. As he stands he says. “I’m a whore, sir. I’m a whore and a queer, sir.” He closes his fist around his hard dick and almost loses it at that single touch. 

Rollins sides a hand over his crotch. “Yeah,” he says, low, “yeah, you are. Fucking cocksucking whore, get yourself off. Tell me what you are.”

“Oh,” Steve strokes himself. “I’m a cunt, sir. A cunt and a fuck hole. A pussy. Just a hole for you, oh, for your dick.” And that’s all it takes. To Steve’s utter dismay, that’s enough to make him shudder and shoot over himself and stagger back, thumping against the carpet-covered wall. Naked, in this filthy booth at the back of a sex shop, with fucking Rollins staring at him, idly stroking himself like Steve is a mildly distracting porno. Not even enough to make him properly jerk himself.

“Yeah, alright,” Rollins stands up, “get dressed you easy fucking fuck.” He comes close to Steve an touches the mess he’s shot over his chest. He wipes his finger in it then takes that finger to his mouth. “Christ you’re whore for it. You knew there were cameras in here, right?”

Steve freezes, catches his heavy breath. “W-what?”

“Yeah. Reckon we got fag daddy his birthday present.”


End file.
